First of May
by Aristyar
Summary: After five years of waiting, Ginny meets someone on a cold Christmas night. H/G Fluffy Angst


**_First of May _**

_Disclaimer: J.K.R. owns all, except established H/G (which we hope someday she'll own, too). _

_A/N: This story was partially inspired by the wonderful Sarah Brightman song, "First of May." It's highly recommended you listen to it while reading. Enjoy! _

Ginny shivered. Her cloak, no matter how thick and no matter what the advertisement had crowed about how formidable its insulating abilities were, could not keep the bitter wind out. Her breath froze in front of her face, and her nose, she was sure, was redder than her fiery hair.

Hogwarts winters were always cold, but this year, somehow, was colder than the rest. Perhaps it was due to the dread that hung over them all, lingering like a veil over the sun—Ginny shook her head. It was Christmas. She would not allow herself to think such thoughts.

"Miss Weasley!" a voice shouted. She looked around, startled: the streets seemed empty, and everybody was probably in some warm nook or cranny. But a strange lump seemed to glide over the ice towards her. "I've the Charms assignment from yesterday—you told me to bring it to you today," it said.

"Thomas!" Ginny frowned incredulously. "Do you know how _cold_ it is?"

The first year nodded solemnly, and held out a meticulously neat roll of parchment with surprisingly warm and steady fingers. "Here's the assignment though," he said. "I asked Professor Longbottom where you'd be, and he said at the Three Broomsticks, you always go there on Christmas—"

Ginny would have slapped her forehead if her hands hadn't been buried under layers of clothing. She suddenly remembered—Thomas had had trouble with several charms and spells, and had stayed at Hogwarts during the holiday. She had helped him yesterday, given him some reinforcement assignments, and then completely forgot about him.

"I'm so sorry," she said, taking the parchment. "Professor Lumpkin asked me to help him on sorting out some ingredients, so I came late—and you must've waited here for hours! Go and find somewhere warm."

"Thanks, Miss Weasley," he called, and trotted off. Apparently, he was better insulated than she. Ginny watched him go fondly. She loved all her students, even the rowdy ones, and had them all call her 'Miss Weasley' instead of 'Professor Weasley.' Percy had been rather miffed at the idea—"Proper respect for a teacher," he had said, but she couldn't help but feel like an old vulture at being addressed 'professor.' _Percy_… she stopped herself.

Thomas was one of the sweeter students, but he had some trouble with Charms. Still, he was earnest about it, always looking at her with his green eyes and slight frown—green eyes—

Ginny shook her head as she marched on, blinking away the tears that filled her eyes and froze on her eyelashes.

_When I was small, and Christmas trees were tall,  
_

_we used to love while others used to play.  
_

_Don't ask me why, but time has passed us by,  
_

_someone else moved in from far away. _

The warmth of the Three Broomsticks, the delicious aroma of butterbeer, and the pleasant din of Christmas all buffeted her as she opened the door, trudging in like a melting snowman.

"Ho!" said Seamus Finnigan from over the counter as she shivered and jumped up and down, teeth chattering. "That's a rather thin coat you have there, Professor Weasley."

"Stop it," she said, smiling. "I'm not that old yet."

Seamus twirled his wand, his smile matching hers. "What'd you like tonight?"

"Butterbeer, like always. Nothing too strong, I still need to get back."

"Good planning," he said, indicating a few villagers who had drunk too much and were now piled, snoring, in front of the fire. "I'll make them all leave before the bar closes, with some anti-freezing charms, of course, though we'll have their bawdy voices in addition to carols. You _should _do some anti-freezing charms on yourself instead of trumping along in a rag."

"It's not a rag," she retorted good-naturedly, "and I like feeling cold."

"Uh-huh," said Seamus, clearing thinking she was simply being ridiculous, but it was true as far as it went. She enjoyed feeling cold, not because she liked _being_ cold, but because she liked _feeling_ it—she was more alive that way. Even this icy winter was something life had to offer, and, uncomfortable as it was, she was going to take it. It was he who told her it—_Live life to the hilt while you wait_—but, she reminded herself, she wasn't thinking about that (_him_, a sneaky voice inside her head whispered) right now.

"Here you go," said Seamus, the butterbeer foaming over the brim. "And your usual seat back there's vacant." He sidled off, and called over his shoulder, "Professor's privilege."

Ginny laughed, and went off.

Every Christmas, this little corner was _hers_. To her left was a painting of a beautiful snow scene hanging on the wall; to her right was the frosted window, thick and cold, distorting the outside view, making the desolate streets and solitary lights look like the smeared toppings of a delicious cake; but in front, facing her, was an empty seat.

She sipped her butterbeer idly, just enjoying the bustle and hustle outside her secluded world. Here she could be herself, until the seat was filled. She smiled sadly and sipped again, and pictured herself lying, snoring, among the other drunkards before the flickering fire, envisioned Seamus's disapproving face as he shoved her out the door, hearing her own uncertain steps as she wandered, singing herself hoarse, through the cold streets—

_It's Christmas,_ she told herself again, staring blankly at the leather-backed seat in front of her. Christmas was a time of family and friends, of warm aromas and carols and flushed faces—but this year, there was going to be one more seat empty at the big round table at the Burrow, and she simply couldn't face it—_Like last year_, that horrible voice whispered again.

She sighed, feeling guilt bubble up in her like the way the beautiful decorations sprung out of old Professor Filtwick's wand—_Not him, not him either_, she told herself sternly. Tonight she was going to enjoy herself as much as she could, even though she knew that Mum and Dad needed her badly. The image of her mother's gentle but sad—and suddenly so old—face rose like steam from hot chocolate before her eyes, and she felt a gaping emptiness somewhere deep in her chest.

She frowned. The footsteps that neared her were vaguely familiar… She knew that she knew them—

"Hello Ginny."

That voice… She felt her heart clench, the squeezing sensation in her chest an old friend from long ago—she looked up, and for a wild moment, she thought illogically: _It's Thomas with some other assignment I forgot_, but from the moment she heard those footsteps, she knew who it was.

_Now we are tall, and Christmas trees are small,  
_

_and you don't ask the time of day.  
_

_But you and I, our love will never die,  
_

_but guess who'll cry come first of May. _

"Harry!"

For a moment, she just looked up at him. His face—those green eyes, the messy hair, and the wry smile—all of it was the same. Or was it just in her bleary mind, tricked by the lateness of the hour?

"May I sit?" he asked, indicating the chair across from her.

"Yes, of course," she said, her heart beating very quickly now. He sat, and she was stuck with awe at his graceful movements, those graceful movements she knew so well. They sat, Harry looking distractedly at the tall Christmas tree, laced with shimmering ornaments, while Ginny looked out the cold window, at the desolate streets. Her breaths came out quickly and gathered on the icy window.

"It's… been a very long time since we met," he said. "When was the last time?"

"Graduation party," she replied. "Five years ago."

"Oh, I remember," he said. "Yes, the party—" He was silent. _The party_, Ginny thought._ You remember, I know you remember. You spent four hours just looking away from me. And after the party_—

She silenced that thought, frantically suppressing the familiar knot in her throat.

"You're a professor now," he said, smiling. "What subject?"

"Charms. After—after Professor Flitwick left." _After he died and his body mutilated and his head sent as gift to Dumbledore on his birthday_.

"I see," said Harry quietly. He resumed gazing at the Christmas tree, and Ginny looked out the window once more. She wanted to scream and cry and yell. _You kissed me that day and left me standing alone in that classroom. I've been empty ever since, Harry, as empty as Percy's chair at the Burrow, as empty as Charlie's, as empty as the chair you're sitting in right now during all those past Christmases_… 

"How's the Burrow?" Harry asked nonchalantly, then suddenly looked studiously back at the garish Christmas tree, the unnaturally red shade of the back of his neck unnoticed by Ginny. 

"It's…fine," said Ginny, not knowing how to answer. After the Death-Eaters took away Charlie and Percy, the Burrow was anything but fine. It was like a shattered egg: nothing could bring it together again; nothing could cleanse it of its heartrending memories. Ginny did not know whether to thank Harry for his concern, or to be furious at him for bringing up painstakingly and carefully buried memories. He was too close now for her to lucidly analyze herself. 

_Not a Christmas card, not a happy birthday greeting, not even the slightest word for five achingly long years. Why must I still feel like this? Even after five years, even after five hundred years, I'll always be empty_. 

"How's the auror work?" she asked. 

"As much as can be expected," he said grimly. He opened his mouth as though to speak, to say something more, but he stopped and looked at the Christmas tree again. 

_Now that you're here, now that I've found you, why am I still silent_? Through her dreams and fantasies, she had always envisioned this—meeting Harry again, walking with him side by side along the Hogwarts lake, under the sapphire sky, laughing and talking about old times, new times. And now she was tongue-tied. 

_The apple tree that grew for you and me,_

_  
I watched the apples falling one by one._

_  
And as I recall the moment of them all,_

_  
the day I kissed your cheek and you were gone. _

"It's—it's good of you to be back," she said, looking down at her butterbeer, which had lost all its foam. She caught her own reflection: her face was red and flushed due to the cold and something else— She nearly knocked over her tankard when she felt Harry's foot touch hers from under the table—_It's an accident, Ginny, an accident_— 

"Thank you," said Harry, voice strange. "But I won't be here for long. I just dropped by, for Christmas, you know." 

"Oh." said Ginny. _Oh really?_ she wanted to say, but—somehow—but she couldn't. _Not a word for five years, and you just drop by for Christmas, today_. She wanted to demand the real reason, or to just tell him how she felt during those long years, but the thick silence defeated her. She looked back down into her tankard, then out at the window, wondering what she would say— 

"Well," said Harry after a painful pause. "I—I'd better be going." He stood up abruptly. 

"What! Already?" The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. _Why should I want to stop them? Why shouldn't I tell him the truth? Why am I frozen and empty though he is so close—so close—yet so far—_

"I—" he turned and looked at her, and their eyes locked, instantly shutting themselves in a world of their own. The cheerful bustle and heat of the Three Broomsticks was gone, dropping away like a discarded cloak, and all Ginny saw and knew and felt was _him_, staring at her— _He'll say it, he'll say what I've been waiting five years for him to say_—She heard angels singing in her hammering heart, felt a warmth she had not felt for five years flood her soul—_He'll say it, he'll_— 

"It's late," he said, his voice rather hoarse. "I'd better be going." He turned around but paused. "It was—nice—meeting you here, Ginny." And then he was gone, back into the cold and ice of Christmas night. 

_Now we are tall, and Christmas trees are small,  
_

_and you don't ask the time of day.  
_

_But you and I, our love will never die,  
_

_but guess who'll cry come first of May. _

Feeling as numb than when she entered the tavern, Ginny squeezed through the crowd to Seamus's counter. _I swear he was close,_ she thought gloomily,_ so close, but why didn't he say it?_

She sighed, and called out over the din, "Seamus, some more butterbeer, please!" 

"Aye, professor," he answered and sauntered over, looking excited. "D'you see him?" 

"What?" 

"Harry! I mean, it's been what, four years—" 

"Five," said Ginny gloomily. 

"—five years since he's been here! And—" his voice faltered. "Oh Ginny… I—I thought you were over him already." 

Her head snapped up. 

"What?" 

"Didn't he tell you? He's engaged to this auror, or someone—Anita or Alicia Brown, but I don't think that's her real name. They're wedding in June, I think, but their plans aren't solid, it might be later in the year, like at the start of the school year…" 

_When I was small, and Christmas trees were tall,  
_

_Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo dooo_…_  
_

_Don't ask me why, but time has passed us by,  
_

_someone else moved in from far away. _

Ginny paced furiously down the streets, heading deeper into the village. She was not one to saunter about, moaning, when hurt or in pain—she wondered if she should go back and ask Seamus for something strong—something to make her drunk and forget—but she didn't. 

_Harry, why didn't you tell me? Why did you keep me hanging by a thread, hoping and hoping?_ She wanted to punch him. She wanted to owl Hermione for the worst curse imaginable and do it on him a hundred times—she wanted to jump off the nearest bridge and come back as a ghost and jeer in Harry's face and the face of his fiancé—she wanted to— 

_Oh, what's the use? Harry's gone, and I_—_and I_— 

Her legs numbed, the pain and sorrow over the last five years gathering upon her like heavy storm clouds, weighing her down, so great that it choked back all her tears. _Oh Harry_—she felt faint where she stood, the cold creeping into her bones. Suddenly, she was weary. 

_What's the use?_ She sighed and leaned against a nearby building. Her nose was very red, and now she rubbed it with a passion. Harry liked her red nose, so by association, she hated it. But her nose only turned redder, she knew, with the constant rubbing—_just like the way it'll be with him_. _I'll never truly stop hurting no matter what I do. I'll never truly be whole again without him_. 

She stood very still, willing herself to drift inwards, to shut the world outside. It was cold, but she heard that freezing to death was like falling asleep… 

"Miss Weasley!" Ginny looked around wildly—_Harry, it's Harry_—but it was Thomas, and Ginny felt an inexplicable blaze of anger at the boy— 

"What?" she snapped. 

"Uh," he said, taken aback, and Ginny felt instantly sorry. "Well, I saw you wandering off away from Hogwarts, and I have an extra butterbeer—maybe you'd like it…?" He offered it to her meekly. 

"Oh Thomas," she sighed, taking the tankard and feeling like hugging the little boy. "I'd like it very much indeed. Thank you." 

"Merry Christmas, Miss Weasley!" 

"You too!" she called out as the little boy trudged off, whistling a cheerful tune. 

Ginny looked into the tankard and drained the butterbeer. Instantly, a feeling of warmth swept over her—she could feel her fingers and feet again. And the emptiness in her heart. 

Why? Why had Harry left her dangling there, clinging onto hope like some dying crone to life? Now, he was gone—he had left her—and she felt the despair trample the warming effects of the butterbeer. _He's left me forever_. _Oh, it's too cruel—he comes and tries to tell me that he's engaged to somebody else, but leaves me starry eyed and—there's nothing—nothing left_…

But something deep inside her, something intrinsic and beautiful and indestructible—something that was Ginny Weasley—disagreed vehemently. Before her eyes she could see, with unsullied clarity, Harry looking at the Christmas tree, eyes avoiding hers—she recalled the way the world melted around them when their eyes met, the way a current of emotion had sparked and flowed, charged with an almost palpable energy, between them—

_Why_, thought Ginny, _he might love me yet_. _Though he's engaged to that auror_—_No_, she thought to herself, but she remembered something else—his voice, on the night of the graduation party—

_"Don't—don't cry, Ginny. We—us—this thing between us—I swear to you that I'll never let it fade, never. I promise, Ginny—I promise."_

Hope. Ginny turned around and sniffled—she might have caught a cold already, and she didn't want to spend the rest of the holiday in the hospital wing. Yes, she would cling to hope, no matter if it would betray her in the end. And so she strode back with a purposeful gait, taking in the frosty moon, the chilly air, the crunch of ice beneath her feet—taking it all in to fill her soul while waiting for Harry to come back to her.

~Finis~


End file.
